if cats aren't your thing, there's always dooce

Dearest Bug,

I can’t believe I have to drop you off tomorrow morning, for the second time 15 days, to have the people in white coats gas you and cut into your precious skin. Your last black threads were only removed two days ago. I know, kid. I know as you are looking at me as I write this. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? Yes, it’s even more unjust than the fact that I have only once let you outside into the world since 2002, when our experiment with a cat harness on Capitol Hill went terribly, horribly awry.

I’m sorry that you have this awful cancer. I’m sorry that when I felt the lump months ago I chalked it up to scar tissue or a recent run in with Cricket’s back legs. I promise you that it didn’t grow – it was only the size of the head of the pin – for months and months. Know that when I saw you walk across the hardwoods two weeks ago, when I saw your right side unbelievably swollen and knew given my constant hugging of you that it had not been there the day before, know that I rushed you to the emergency vet within minutes. Know that I will never, ever, ever get over the feeling that I may have failed you, that you might not be losing this leg or in this danger at all if I had been more vigilant. I did what I thought was best. I truly promise you that.

Know too my sweet kid that I love few things more in this life than being your mom. We’re always straight with each other, so why would we stop now: I know you know it wasn’t always this way. When I opened my apartment door in Tallahassee in 1999 to your screaming, tiny face, the dog-loving me late for work and you simply hungry and homeless, I wanted nothing more than to toss your hairy self into someone else’s arms. I berated my roommate for having fed you canned Chicken of the Sea the day prior; what did I need with one of those straggly cats yelling at my door, anyway?

But things change, and your gentle kind grew on me. In time you became the involuntary charge of a fellow grad student who kept you as an outside cat in my very apartment complex. I often wonder if you envied the fact that her two other cats lived inside while you roamed the Tallahassee streets; I trust you’ll tell me this someday over catnip in your 7th life. When the situation demanded, the lovely Kim took you in next, providing you with even more Florida acreage to roam and call your own. She often talks of how you spent the colder Panhandle nights snuggled atop her stash of firewood, and how more than once she opened the front door to see nothing but bird feathers strewn about the area you called home. And there you were, licking your chops. I never tire of her telling those same stories of you in the pseudo-wild.

I recall that while at Kim’s house, in my last months of graduate school and during a routine afternoon Tally rainstorm, I asked permission to let your begging, drenched self inside. She agreed. You very quietly and politely walked into her living room and eventually positioned yourself on the soft couch next to me. I think I knew I loved you even then, sweet boy. When your next gig was planned as an outdoor cat in North Carolina, I would have nothing of it. If the planets aligned, you would be mine and would roam my first 300-square-foot DC apartment like a warm, city man of the house should. And you filled those shoes beautifully, my dear. After weeks in 2003 spent hiding under the couch cover, you emerged as my companion. A companion that used the litter box from day one. Who slept on my bed as my protector. Who found out he loved yogurt when he first knocked a blueberry Yoplait out of my hands in the initial months of our partnership. Know that behind Cricket’s back I have left the last spoonful for you in each and every container since then. If anything is, this was meant to be, Bug.

So despite our iffy beginnings, know that I can’t imagine my heart being bigger for you, little man. When I stepped into that last examination room on Tuesday, the very one in which I found out only four years earlier that my first kitty had a fatal and equally rare illness to your own, I was prepared to do whatever it took to ensure that our time on this earth together would be as long as possible. And here we are.

I promise to love you even more with your three little legs, Buggles. I promise to kiss this new scar when you’ll let me and help you onto the couch if you should need it. I promise to let you fight dirty if your street cred demands it. I promise to check compulsively for those tiny bumps that we know may come back at any time. I pledge to allow you to steal my full glass of ice water with an extended paw before I take even a first sip. I hereby swear more treats and more eye rubs. I vow to try to be less frustrated when you beg daily for food via nail inserted into my nostril or tear duct. At 5 am.

I vow to be better to you than ever. I hope I have the time to be.

With all my love to you and your sister,
Mom